Roy Cropper gulped and tightened his apron. Milton had barely unpacked his embossed handkerchiefs but already the entrepreneurial Coronation Street newcomer was turning Sylvia's knees to soup and Roy's transfat snack shack into a chain of railway-themed steakhouses.

Roy gazed at the building plans and saw a faultline appear in his tiny, carefully ordered life. "Oh dear," he said. "Oh dear, oh dear." But it was too late. Milton has a wide-fitting loafer in the door of the future and a rheumy eye on Sylvia's support hose. Milton doesn't do doubt. "Beef Encounter could be bigger than McDonald's! TOOT TOOT!" he barked as Roy looked on helplessly. Neither Roy nor his rolls stand a chance.

But it was for Becky McDonald that the bell tolled loudest, her departure – a public debagging of inveterate liar Tracy Barlow ("'Er medical records show that when she fell down my stairs … SHE WAS NOT PREGNANT") followed by a climactic airport dash in a leopard-print padded jacket – proving a fitting send-off for the reigning holder of soap's Golden Scrunchie for Indomitability In The Face Of Relentless Leisurewear. After six years of miscarriages, velour jogging bottoms, theft, alcoholism, cigarettes and Steve McDonald, Becky had earned herself a first-class ticket to the Costa del Schadenfreude, a new life tucked under her arm like a raffle ham.

"Regrets are for people what stop on the ground. We're heading for the stars," she told new boyfriend Danny over a bottle of high-altitude fizz, fully aware that, 30,000 feet beneath her, on a drizzly patch of Weatherfield cobble, Steve McDonald was standing contemplating the prospect of 40 years manacled to Tracy Barlow with a face like an abandoned clay pit.

Fly away, Becky. Never look back. TOOT TOOT.

The aftershocks of Pat Evans's death have left EastEnders' storylines in shreds. Ben got Phil charged with murder and Tamwar did his best to interest us in his post-traumatic stress disorder but a listlessness has descended on Albert Square, with events taking on the air of an extended wake; new characters and subplots lie around ignored, like wilting egg sandwiches on a widower's sideboard. Only Pat's funeral exhibited any signs of life, an irony lost on the assembled mourners, who marked the occasion by bitching about the vicar's mixtape (Mo), vomiting behind a bench (Lauren), and trading pleasantries with scrunch-faced flibbertigibbet Mandy Salter (Bianca: "YOU SCRUBBA!"). The emotion proved too much for David, who dumped Carol and fled weeping into the night ("Oh, mum!").

Armchair Freudians were forced to reach for another box of Kleenex upon the shock – albeit fleeting – return of Simon Wicks, who drifted out of the narrative gloaming like an afterthought in a Crombie. As the closing credits rolled, the feckless 80s womaniser fingered some graveside carnations, mumbled his Pat-oriented goodbyes and then, because every loser wins, promptly buggered off again. There was then a single, solemn doof-doof, followed by … silence. The effect was nothing if not disconcerting. For one horrifying moment we feared we may be trapped in some neverending doof-doof matrix, the theme tune starting up again during MasterChef, perhaps, and a storyline involving Fatboy and a consignment of discount rave horns breaking out during Panorama. It's what Pat would've wanted, after all.

Dark days at Holby City, where the hospital's new-found Foundation Trust status has seen proceedings beset by managerial efficiency. "We must double our intake. Entice foreign fees. Strengthen the affiliation to the university," monotoned inscrutable director of surgery Henrik Hanssen, resulting in an 87.4% increase of shots of Ric Griffin sighing at graphs. Amid the management-speak, the romantic subplots presented a paradigm shift in actionable surprisability.

While Sahira continued to play push-me-pull-you with carefully unshaven Irishman Greg, Chrissie canoodled with galumphing babydaddy Sacha in full view of rectangle-headed ex Dan. "But you used to laugh at him," bugled Dan, fists balled and forehead concertinaed in rectangular outrage. "He's not good enough for you. I mean, LOOK AT HIM!" We looked at him. And we nodded. Sacha is the crumpled embodiment of dufferdom. His jowls alone merit a lighthearted daytime DIY series on UKTV Bright Ideas. But these are straitened times. The financial squeeze has extended its reach to Holby's heart, forcing serial boffer Chrissie to lower her already catastrophically low standards. Should the relationship with Sacha go tits-up, her only remaining romantic prospects are the dying pygmy date palm outside the ground floor cafeteria and cardiothoracic consultant Elliot Hope. May God have mercy on their souls.